Chapter Text
When Tim woke up strapped to a table, he wasn’t afraid. It was par for the course for a Robin to be kidnapped, sure, Tim did his best to make sure it happened as little as possible, but he wouldn’t spiral into a panic on the occasions it did happen. He was trained better than that.
Tim wasn’t afraid when he realised he was in a rundown warehouse– they were practically his second home at this point. He was mildly curious about the machine he was hooked up to. It looked like something from an asylum in the sixties.
When he heard a bubbly, painful sounding laugh sound from down the hall, he got a little anxious.
It was par for the course for a Robin to be kidnapped, yes–
Tim’s stomach dropped when the rusty metal door swung open to reveal the Joker, in his usual flurry of green, purple and white.
– It was even common for each Robin to be taken by the Joker at least once in their run–
The Joker’s grin widened, his face stretching like melted toffee being pulled apart, his smile too big for his bony, narrow face.
– But once a Robin was taken by the Joker, everything changed, for the worse, always for the worse. And that was only if the Robin was lucky enough to survive the encounter–
Joker strolled into the room. He moved like a man in an old Hollywood movie, except he seemed to glitch, almost. Tim had never noticed that before.
– The last Robin died, could there be anything worse than that?–
The Joker leaned over Tim, his dimples cut so deeply into his face they may as well have been carved in. Yet, no matter how big his smile was, the corners of his eyes never crinkled, they remained smooth, framing hollow eyes with a hungry glint. Like a starved wolf running across a dying deer.
– The only thing worse than dying would be losing yourself completely–
“Welcome home, son.” Joker’s voice had a high, joyful lilt.
– If given the choice, it was always better to have a stone grave than a flesh one.
Tim glared up at the Joker. “I’m not your fucking son.” His voice was raspy, he must have been out for longer than he thought. Long enough for Batman to have caught his trail, right?
“Teenagers, always so rebellious!” Joker laughed, it bounced and echoed off the walls of the warehouse. There were a lot of warehouses in Gotham, the thought made Tim’s heart clench. “Don’t worry, papa will fix that.”
Tim swallowed thickly. He was a little scared now.
-
It turns out, the machine was from one of those old asylums. 'The Arkham before Arkham' Joker called it.
It was used to shock the misery out of depressed housewives. Or the gay out of young men. That’s what Harley said.
“What are you expecting to shock out of me?” Tim asked with a weak smirk. Put on a brave face.
“Everything.” Joker punctuated his statement with a clap, Tim noted the way Harely flinched at the sound. “Time for round one, puddin’.” He spoke in a sweet tone, a poor parody for love, if you asked Tim. No one did. “Pull the lever!”
Harely did.
Tim didn’t scream.
-
The Joker injected something into the back of Tim’s neck. He didn’t get the chance to be curious about it before Harely pulled the lever again.
-
“How’re you feeling, son?” Joker ran a hand through Tim’s hair.
“Fuck you.” Tim rasped. The hand in his hair tightened, pulling up until Tim’s head was straining away from the table.
“You shouldn’t talk to your papa like that.” He said softly.
Tim glared back at him through watery eyes. “I don’t.”
Joker’s grip loosened abruptly. Tim’s head slammed against the metal table with a loud clang.
“Did my baby hit his head?” Harley cooed, rushing over to him, only to be violently shoved back by Joker.
She fell to the floor without so much as a surprised yelp.
“Don’t fuss over him,” Joker said lightly. “It’s his own fault.”
“Is that what your father said about you, Jack?” Tim questioned. He had read Joker’s files from back to front when he became Robin, every sparse scrap of information Batman could gather about the rogue's past was there. And Tim had memorised it all.
Joker’s shoulders tensed and, for once, he was silent.
Something at the back of Tim’s mind screamed. An instinct trying to warn him that he was in danger, the kind you run from as fast as your feet can take you, no questions asked.
Tim was good at ignoring that instinct. “You were a pretty ‘clumsy’ kid, right? Clumsy adult too, if you were stupid enough to fall into that vat of acid–”
Joker turned the knob up to the highest setting and pulled the lever.
Tim did scream. It didn’t make a difference.
-
He pulled the lever again and again and again–
-
Where was Batman? Had he forgotten about Tim? No, no, that was Jack and Janet. Not Batman, Not Bruce–
-
– And again and again and again–
-
He was calling out, into an empty warehouse, empty manor.
Mom. Dad. Batman. Nightwing. Spoiler. Black Bat.
He was hurt and cold and scared and he didn’t know where, or who, he was, he just knew those names.
Bruce. Dick. Cass. Alfred. Steph.
He didn’t need his name if he had those ones.
-
– And again and again and again.
-
He forgot the other names he was calling out for. He forgot. He didn’t know anything or anyone, just the way his blood burned and how papa– no, Joker– laughed.
No, he knew one name. Someone who was light and magic and always saved people when they got in trouble.
“Robin!” His voice was a fearful, broken thing, yet the word solidified something that had been shaken, just for a moment.
Joker’s laughter got louder, as if he’d been told a really good joke.
“Robin, Robin, Robin!” His voice was drowned out in the tsunami of laughter and the crackle of electricity.
-
Robin was dead.
-
Junior’s limbs were numb and kept twitching. He blinked up at Papa, who stared back at him with a wide smile.
“What’s the best oven to cook a bird in, gas or electric?” Papa snorted, giggled, then laughed, loud and bubbly.
It was so contagious that even though he didn’t get the joke, Junior started laughing too.
And he couldn’t stop.
-
Mama cleaned Junior up, apparently he made a mess while being disciplined. She helped him to the shower, an old, rusty thing that looked as old as the machine Junior had been hooked up to.
Once he was out, Mama helped him change into the new suit Papa got him. Green and purple, such pretty colours.
They made Junior think of a blonde girl and two black haired boys, Mama shushed him when he told her that.
“Never say that around Papa, okay, baby?” She whispered. Junior giggled, but nodded all the same. He liked secrets.
Once he was in his suit, he twirled round and grinned up at Mama, who smiled back at him in a soft, sad way that made him tilt his head in confusion.
“I’m sorry.” She brushed his hair back from his face.
Junior giggled. “Silly, Mama.” He hugged her and turned towards the door where Papa was standing with a crowbar in his hand.
“Wanna play baseball?” He twirled the crowbar in his hands.
“Depends on what we’re hitting.” Junior grinned and Papa laughed.
-
It was a good game.
-
Mama had a baseball bat in her hands and she was hitting Papa.
To be fair, Papa hit her first.
Mama tried to pull Junior out the door with her, but Papa was already getting up and they were both moving funny and Junior couldn’t stop laughing–
“I’ll be back.” She said, low and hushed. “I promise.” She gave him a quick kiss on the head before making her way towards the door.
Papa lunged at her, Mama’s back was turned, she wouldn’t see him–
Junior jumped into Papa’s arms, giggling. “Are we playing catch now, Papa?”
“We’re done you sick fuck!” Mama yelled on her way out. “We’re fucking done!”
“No, son, we’re gonna play something a little different.” Papa grinned, tracing a long, bony finger down Junior’s cheek. “But first we gotta do some face painting.”
-
Junior’s face was bone white and his hair was neon green. Papa was going to use bleach to paint his face, but decided that would take too long.
He was looking between red face paint and a kitchen knife, deciding which one to use to make Junior's smile ‘as big as can be.’
Papa came towards him with the knife in hand. “When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you,” He crooned softly under his breath.
Junior giggled as Papa pulled him onto his lap, making sure to have a clear view of his face. The knife began cutting into the corner of his lips.
“Careful, Junior, you’ll make a mess.” Papa sing-songed.
Junior tried to stay still but his limbs kept twitching, as they had since he was carried off the table.
“Get away from my son.” A growl sounded from the doorway.
“Papa, look! It’s a bat!” Junior pointed at the tall, looming figure in the doorway.
The Bat froze halfway through stepping into the room. “What have you done?” The voice was quiet and horrified.
“Just having a little father-son time, Batsy.” Papa said, gesturing grandly to Junior. Then he took out a gun and shot at the Bat, who dodged just in time.
Junior giggled and clapped his hands. “Well done!”
“Robin, listen to me–” Joker cut Bat off by firing off another shot.
“Getting senile in your old age, Batman?” Papa questioned. “Robin is dead.”
Robin is dead.
Junior’s brow furrowed. Then Papa nudged him and he was smiling again.
Batman took out some sort of metal boomerang. The knife went from Junior’s face to his throat. Batman’s breath hitched audibly in the quiet room.
“That’s not where you cut a smile, Papa.” Junior informed him, grinning widely and pointing to his lips. “It’s here.”
“We may be trying something a little different today, if Batsy isn’t careful.” He pressed the knife into Junior’s skin, it was cold.
Junior looked at Batman, whose face was stoic, but his hands were trembling. “Be careful.”
Batman nodded.
“Now,” Joker lifted the gun in the hand that wasn't holding the knife. “Try to stay still, or Junior may get a little papercut.”
And he shot Batman in the shoulder. Twice.
Junior laughed loudly as Batman crumpled to the ground. The laughter was painful, it always had been, as if each giggle was being slowly ripped out of him. Papa said that it just meant the joke was really funny.
Papa pulled the knife away from Junior’s throat and pushed him off his lap. “We’ll finish your smile after a little game.” He placed the gun in Junior’s hands, guiding him until his finger was resting nicely on the trigger.
“What’s this game?” Junior asked, his arms twitching.
“Put the bullet in the Bat.” Papa answered.
Junior’s nose wrinkled briefly at the lame title, but he nodded all the same. “So I shoot him?”
“Until he stops moving.” Papa confirmed.
“Robin.” Batman rasped as Junior stumbled towards him, his limbs twitching and jerking like a puppet with loose strings. The cold metal of the gun rattled slightly as he shook with laughter. It hurt, it hurt so much. “Come back to me.”
“You’ll see your Robin soon enough.” Papa cackled. It must be one of those jokes Junior doesn’t get.
Junior’s eyes narrowed. Batman was hurt, yes. But he could move, why wasn’t he moving?
Junior stood over Batman, feeling Papa’s eyes on them from the other side of the room.
“Tim, sweetheart,” Batman’s voice was soft, gentle in a way that made Junior think of strong arms and safety. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault, you’ll be okay.”
Junior laughed. “Aren’t you gonna fight? Put on a show for Papa?”
Something about Batman seemed tired, as if the fight had gone out of him. He's not supposed to look that way anymore. Junior wrinkled his nose at the strange thought. Why won't he fight for himself? Why does he never fight for himself?
"Shut up." Junior muttered, fiddling with the gun in his hands. "Come on, Batman, don't be a grump." He lightly kicked the man in the ribs, smiling when Papa laughed in the background.
That’s when Junior noticed the blood seeping out Batman’s shoulder. And side.
Joker always knows what places to hit. A sharp, bitter feeling shot through Junior and he flinched.
“It’s not your fault.” Batman said, steady and sure. "Remember that."
Stop me and I won't have to.
Junior pointed the gun at Batman.
Goddammit, do something.
Tim threw it away from Bruce.
Bruce's face melted into something soft, almost proud. He looked past Junior and smiled at Tim.
Even when I'm burning, I still have to pull you out of the fire.
Tim stumbled forward, his movements jagged and stiff. He was laughing. He couldn’t stop laughing. Joker was yelling, Tim didn’t care, he pushed Joker right onto the metal table
Joker flailed, his hand grasping for something to hold on to, it found the lever and the electricity went on and–
Joker screamed, he laughed, he seized and he went still.
Tim stared at the silent, twitching corpse. Was it a corpse? Did he kill? Did he care?
There was a rumbling sound in the background, but Tim couldn't pay it any attention– was he even Tim?
Everything was fuzzy. He didn’t know what was going on. All he knew was that he killed someone in defence of a man who centres his identity around not doing that.
He didn't mean to. God, of course he didn't.
But he's glad he did. He's so glad and what does that make him? Oh God–
"It's okay, Tim. You're alright, breathe for me chum, that's it," Bruce soothed– When did he get over here? Tim gasped in a deep, choked breath, finally registering the weight of Bruce's hands on his shoulders and the soothing rumble of his voice.
Tears streamed down his face, hot and blurry, stinging his eyes and clogging his throat. His laughter was replaced with sobs. His chest tightened, his stomach clenched and his breath hitched. Why did crying feel so much like laughter?
Why did it feel like nothing had changed?
Bruce was talking, guiding Tim towards the doorway. Why didn't you fight?
Tim looked at the Joker's twitching form. He was still alive. It was just a matter of how long he would remain that way.
"Are...are you going to...to save..."
Save my torturer? Jason's killer? Your monster?
Bruce said nothing. Just tucked Tim under his good arm and walked them out of the damp, dark building, letting the metal door screech shut behind them.
-
Somehow, the Joker lived anyway.
-
As did Junior, for a time.
-
It was a microchip that Joker had injected into Tim's head. And in that chip held everything that made up Junior.
That triggered Junior.
Tim laughed a lot. At small things, that really weren't funny at all.
He'd stifle his giggles at the breakfast table, biting his tongue until blood mixed with eggs that he choked down with a hidden grimace.
He wasn't Robin yet. But he wanted to be.
And Robin doesn't laugh. Not anymore.
-
He couldn’t tell Bruce that Junior was still there, resting in his brain like a tumour. He couldn’t.
Batman needed a Robin.
And so did Tim.
Robin was light and Tim was willing to burn his hands to cradle it.
The problem was that Junior was willing to burn everything else for it.
Joker really had known what he was doing when he pulled that lever.
-
There were only three people that he could trust with the truth of Junior.
Bart with his advanced knowledge from the future, Kon with his X-Ray vision and Cassie with her affinity for magic, all worked tirelessly with Tim to make a microchip with a code to fight off Junior.
And, after months of work, they did.
It worked almost perfectly. There were glitches and alterations that had to be made but overall, Tim was safe.
Most importantly, he was himself.
"Thank you." Tim said quietly, his voice choked with so many emotions. And none of them amusement.
"Anything for you, Rob." Kon clapped his shoulder, using the motion to pull Tim in for a hug. Bart and Cassie joined and for the first time in months, Tim felt safe.
-
Even with the chip, Tim still had to fight. He felt more like the light that burned and blinded than the one that guided and reassured.
But he trained, he rebuilt himself and he flew by Batman’s side.
The city was brighter for it.
Yet, it didn't feel the same. Every time he saved someone, he wondered how long it would be until they became a victim once more.
Whether they'd be one of Pa– Joker's victims, making everything Tim did for naught.
One day, he came across Harley.
Tim's first instinct had been to hug her. He had never even had that for his own mother.
Nightwing had to apprehend her in the end.
Tim stared at his costume. It barely had any green on it anymore. Dick hadn't said anything about the change, but Tim knew it must hurt.
Tim glanced over at the display case. The one he had to live up to because he lived. And he had to make that worth something.
He stared at the costume behind the glass.
What kind of Robin was he?
-
"The best." Kon said whenever he asked.
-
He never talked about it. His time in that warehouse. He couldn’t.
It took him almost three years to finish his report of those three weeks.
He emailed it to Batman and ran away to Drake manor.
-
Bruce found him. He held Tim in his arms and called him son.
-
"You are my Robin," Dick said fiercely. "My brother. Nothing he did will change that."
-
Tim got better.
He smiled without fear of laughter. He flew through Gotham, Bludhaven, outer space and made things better.
He wasn't good, but he was getting there. He was healing and light and–
-
He was fighting for his life.
Tim blocked Jason’s attack with his staff, turning as he did to duck away and move out of reach.
In a fair fight, it would likely be a draw between them.
But Jason didn't want a fair fight. He had come to the Tower armed to the teeth while Tim was fresh off a two day mission, dressed in his pyjamas.
"Why?" Tim asked.
They both wanted to make things better. They both knew what it was like to be broken by him. So why?
Why did Jason willingly carry Joker's old mantle? Why did he hate Robin? Why was he so determined to break someone else the way he himself had been broken?
There was a pause, where all he saw was the helmet gleaming like blood under the flashing lights.
“Why not?" He could hear the grin in Jason's voice, a cruel, malicious thing.
It reminded him of– no, no, no–
It was him.
He registered Jason attacking again, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid it. His fist met Tim's ribs like a drunk driver meets a curb. Something cracked, crumpling like paper under Jason's strike.
Tim gasped, stumbling backwards, barely lifting his staff in time to block another hit. Tim rammed his staff against Jason's knuckles, sighing in relief when the man jerked his hand back with a groan.
The pain didn't deter him for long.
Tim twisted away as Jason lunged forward, moving back to avoid the attack, and dropping to the ground manoeuvring his staff around Jason's ankle. He let out a pained hiss, stumbling away and giving Tim some much needed personal space.
His ribs were screaming at him as he stood back up, taking in shallow breaths to try and manage the strain. Jason straightened up, limping forward, determined in his rage.
Tim steeled himself, gripping his staff tightly.
He could do this. He was Robin, he was light, he–
-
He was choking on his own blood on the floor of his team's base.
JokerRedHoodJasonRobin slipped his fingers across the open wound on his throat, walked to the wall and started writing.
Tim had been healing.
Jason Todd was here. The words shone under the light, red and slick to match the blood in Tim’s mouth, heavy and cloying, filling his senses with that distinct metallic taste.
Robin's wings had been broken by the very person he flew for.
For the first time in years, Tim laughed, blood bubbling past his lips and splattering on his chin.
Jason snarled and kicked Tim in the head on the way out. Something cracked.
-
Later, Tim would realise that it wasn't his heart or some other metaphorical thing.
It was the microchip.
-
Batman went on a rampage.
With Robin out of commission, no one could stop him.
Well, Cass could. But she wouldn't.
"He hurt you. He gets hurt." She signed, each gesture sharp and vicious.
Batman was free to do what was necessary.
-
Tim saw the batarang slice Jason's throat.
He saw Batman save the Joker.
It was too much.
It wasn't enough.
-
"I can't hurt him. Or I will end him." Cass signed, her eyes empty.
He leaned against her. "That's okay." He said. That won't be a problem for me. He didn’t say.
Cass heard both.
She held his hand.
-
He watched Jason. It was hard to follow him on a broken leg, but Junior– no, Tim– made do.
Tim had his camera with him for old times sake. He didn’t take any pictures, only used the lense to zoom in on Jason as he went about his day.
He didn’t want any evidence of this. Or what would come next.
It was hard to see Jason as a monster when he wrapped a little girl up in his jacket while they waited for the police to arrive.
But it was also hard to see Papa– no, Joker– as a monster when they were in matching suits, playing baseball.
Monsters are people and people are monsters. It’s something you learn young in Gotham.
Tim hadn’t forgotten, per say, but it had gone to the back of his mind. Robin was light and you don’t embody light by focusing on the darkness in everyone.
But Jason had knocked it to the forefront of his mind. Claws lie under manicured fingernails and needle sharp teeth hide behind pillow soft lips.
Wings get broken and light gets snuffed out.
And sometimes, to light your own path, you have to set someone else on fire.
-
Tim was benched until the last of his broken bones healed. Even then, it would be weeks of rebuilding strength before he was able to hit the streets as Robin again.
It was all too similar to the warehouse.
– He wondered if Jason ever thought the same thing–
It gave him a lot of time to think.
-
Kon, Bart and Cassie listened intently as he told them his plans. He expected them to be disgusted, maybe even horrified. Perhaps a part of him hoped they’d be.
“It’s nothing less than he deserves.” Cassie’s fists were clenched by her sides.
“We can be your alibi!” Bart said brightly.
“I’ll handle what’s left of him.” Kon nodded approvingly.
He blinked. “Okay, then.”
His friends laughed, called him an emotionally constipated idiot and with that, they started redrafting the plan together.
-
He knew where Jason would be. He always knew these days. All he had to do was give Bart the location.
-
“You’ll text me when you get there.” Bruce said.
Tim laughed. “It’s just a movie night–”
“And before you go to bed. Text me then too.” He continued.
“Bruce–” Tim tried.
“Do you have your painkillers?” Bruce questioned, frowning at him.
“Yeah.” Tim sighed, resigned to Bruce’s fussing. Who knew the Dark Knight would be such a mother hen?
– It was nice.
Bruce narrowed his eyes at Tim, as if expecting a series of spontaneous injuries to appear. Which, knowing their lives, wasn’t totally unreasonable.
“I’ll text you. Promise.” Tim squeezed Bruce’s arm comfortingly.
Bruce let out a quiet breath. “Enjoy your movie night.” He smiled gently.
“It’s gonna be epic.” He promised.
-
Kon flew him to the warehouse. Not that warehouse. Or that warehouse. Just a random one on the San Francisco docks.
-
Bo staff? Check.
Tim had seen the files. He knew what had happened to Jason. Knew every injury inflicted on him.
Knife? Check.
He knew what the Joker had done. He had been very eager to tell Junior what had happened to the last bird that flew into his net.
Gun? Check.
He’d stared up at the memorial case each night before going out on patrol. Taking in every stain and tear on the fabric. A sobering reminder of what it meant to be Robin.
Even that hadn’t prepared him for what he faced. Strapped to a table, electricity coursing through his veins as he screamed for a Robin that wasn’t him.
Beaten and broken on the floor, choking on his blood as he stared up at the Robin he had been screaming for.
Laughter being the only thing he heard both times.
Crowbar? Check.
He glanced over at the still figure chained down to an horribly familiar metal table. A necessary evil. There weren't any other tables strong enough to hold their kind.
Or maybe that was a lie. Jason wasn't the only one with an inclination towards symbolic drama. They are both their father's sons after all.
Want me to show you what the Joker did to me?
“You did. Now it's my turn.” He murmured to himself.
He stared for a few moments. He could tell Jason was only pretending to be asleep.
That was fine. He still had a few more preparations to make anyway.